


Wrigleyville Lullaby

by phenanthrene_blue



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chicago Cubs, Crack and Angst, Dubious Ethics, Humor, Illicit Relationship, Incorrect use of Wrigley Field ivy, Insomnia, M/M, Porn With Extensive Character Development, Trade Deadline, fun with power dynamics, teammates as friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 01:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20573885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phenanthrene_blue/pseuds/phenanthrene_blue
Summary: Ian’s still anxiously pacing the outfield, finally reaching the wall. He taps his toe in the dirt and looks at the ivy snaking lushly up the brick. He reaches out, grabs an ivy leaf, and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, broad and green and glossy. He closes his eyes.Heshouldn’t, but everything meanssomething. He can’t escape it.Everythingis a creeping association; a memory lying dormant, just waiting to pounce.





	Wrigleyville Lullaby

Two hours before the evening’s first pitch, Ian is taking a walk around the Wrigley outfield warning track with Albert. He walks here sometimes, alone, but today, it’s nice to have the company.

It’s breezy, with the wind blowing out to straightaway center, and hot as a foundry furnace - the kind of impermeable heat that only July in the Midwest can bring. Kris (the last of the infielders) is up for batting practice now in the cage, and Ian and Albert’s conversation is frequently interrupted by the hard _thonk _of another rocket shot whizzing into the empty bleachers. 

“Oh-for-four last night, man. _Rough_.” Albert’s shoulders fall.

“Nothing’s even close to working yet, huh?”

“Nope. So far I’ve tried an extra hour of BP, two nights off just for rewatching _Game of Thrones_, the backwards underwear trick…even tried Javy’s rum cure.”

“He’s still pushing that bullshit? That _never_ works.” Ian laughs.

“Yep. Even had another oh-for-four the next day.” Albert rolls his eyes and scoffs. “And a _hangover_. Joe saw right through it. Left me in the lineup simply to make me wear it…thank _God _we won that one and nobody hit anything in my general direction out in left for a while.” 

A baseball arcs over their heads, and no sound follows this time - Kris is _really _showing off, sending them out on the street now. The sun is getting low, starting to mask itself behind the North Side’s tall buildings, but the wind is still near ninety degrees and offers little reprieve. 

“So what did Joe say when you talked to him yesterday?” Ian inquires.

“That I should go talk to Theo, ‘cuz it seemed to do wonders for you.” 

At the mention of Theo, Ian’s gait slows immediately, and he says nothing back.

“So what’s the deal?” Albert continues, clearly unobservant. “Is it true what they say about his _legendary_ ability to break a slump? Or do I even need to ask, seeing as you’re batting almost three-hundred since May?”

“_Uh_.” Ian stutters, “Uh, _um. Yeah._” His heart’s suddenly turned around and jack-knifed right into the pit of his stomach. “I mean, y-you’ve-you’ve got the evidence.”

“Think I might give it a try if nothing else works. Gotta be better than the rum, at any rate.” 

Ian’s lucky he’s wearing his hat and shades, as he’s sure his cheeks are starting to redden conspicuously. That’s a rather predictable - almost reflexive - response at this point, but there’s some _other _feeling there. Something underneath it, nagging, prodding, playing counterpoint, almost like…

“_Almora!_” Someone yells from the infield, before Ian has a chance to analyze it. Batting practice is beginning for the outfielders. 

“Shit, I’m up.” Albert says.

“Don’t take my head off out here, man.” Ian grins.

_What’s the feeling? _

_It’s almost like he’s _jealous _of Albert. _

***

Because that’s how it all started.

It was a slump. Just a May slump, but a _bad_ one, one that had gotten Ian psyched out and overanalyzing, and _that’s_ how he didn’t break 0.200 for a full month. It’s like the phenomenon of _tilt_ in poker: when you think too closely about how you’re playing, you perform poorly, and then you bet more to compensate for your performance. And then you play worse, overthink, bet again, and before you know it, you’re sucked into a nasty vortex of losing. Baseball’s really not all that different.

So Joe had sent him to Theo. It was meant to help; it had helped some of his teammates. Send a guy hacking it up at the plate to the Team President’s office to straighten him out somehow. Oldest trick in the book, really. Theo was meant to be the facilitator; the fixer, the mentor - because that’s his _job_. It started with them playing golf and talking. And it should’ve _stopped _with them playing golf and talking, it really should have, but…

When Ian thinks about it, _where_ it went, where it keeps _going_, his palms start to sweat. He’s twitching and gnawing on his bottom lip aggressively, right here in the middle of the outfield.

Ian _knows _he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows right from wrong. He’s an _adult,_ not some insatiable, emotional wreck of hormones and bad decisions that’s completely consumed and blind to the consequences. He understands things like _professionalism_ and _appropriateness._

_He has to remind himself constantly: no matter what it seems, Theo isn’t his friend. Theo isn’t his teammate._

Ian’s aware of how hierarchy and ethics work.

Theo is Joe’s boss. Theo is an _executive._ Theo has ultimate authority over just about everything here. Theo’s world is not his. Ian can’t even make-believe in some twisted way that it is.

_And he understands cause and effect._

Ian knows this could very easily destroy his career. He knows it would do the same to Theo. Any whisper of this, any veneer scuffed off this deep secret, even any vague _hint_ would be a hand swatting across the house of cards. A wrench chucked into the entire machine; an ugly, disgraceful wound across the face and legacy of their entire organization, that, upon cursory glance, seems so perfect. _Perfect. _All high-tech, rich and lustrous, world-class, and _first-place._ On top of _that_, it’s a bone thrown to the horde of homophobic old Cubs fans from stuck-up places like Winnetka and Highland Park. Not that what’s happening is _illegal_ or _coercive_ or _predatory_, and hell, Theo doesn’t even actually call himself _gay _(he’s just - what’s the word he used? -_ flexible? Opportunistic?_ But that’s probably even worse somehow, at least, with their reasoning).

_And they’re in first place, which makes it even _worse! He shouldn’t! He just fucking _shouldn’t_. Some things in life actually _are_ moral absolutes, and this is one of them. Ian isn’t stupid; he knows that.

It’s nearing six o’clock, and Jason’s up in the cage now, hitting a few ground balls that David and Javy are working diligently on fielding. Schwarbs is next, and he’s probably got a bet going with Kris over who can break the most windows across the street (or at least, that’s how he’s going to swing). 

Ian’s still anxiously pacing the outfield, finally reaching the wall. He taps his toe in the dirt and looks at the ivy snaking lushly up the brick. He reaches out, grabs an ivy leaf, and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, broad and green and glossy. He closes his eyes.

He _shouldn’t_, but everything means _something_. He can’t escape it._ Everything_ is a creeping association; a memory lying dormant, just waiting to pounce.

***

_Three nights earlier._

_They had called it the Rain Delay From Hell. Lukewarm and hard and seemingly without end? Check. In the seventh inning of a 6:10 PM start? Check! In a tie game with a division rival, causing an unwanted three-hour intermission that made everyone go cold? Check, check, and check. And then the thing went into extra innings, on top of it: a muddy, sloppy affair of exhausted bullpens and slippery outfield grass. _

_Finally, in the bottom of the fourteenth, at nearly one in the morning, Ian had, mercifully, ended it. It wasn’t even climactic: just a shitty little roller up the middle that got Javy home. Gave the Cubs seven runs to Cincinnati’s six. A walk-off still gets a soaked and thinned-out crowd loud enough to scream the bolts loose out of the place._

_Afterwards, when everyone else had slogged home for some much-deserved rest, Ian had taken one of his customary walks around the outfield. The video-board and the lights had already gone off. It was just him. Alone on the warning track. Still in his uniform, getting drenched by the intensifying downpour. _

_Or so he had thought. _

_He had become slowly aware that there was another pair of plodding footsteps behind his own._

_“You’re getting a bit of a flair for the dramatic, aren’t you.” Theo had laughed, and Ian startled and asked, “Fuck, how long’ve you been back there?”_

_“A while.” Theo had told him. “I was wondering when you’d notice.” Then Theo gave him that slight, crooked grin he gets sometimes. And that was, really, all it had taken to start to get Ian riled up - at least, as riled up as he could’ve gotten, standing there with the decidedly un-sexy feeling of having showered in his clothes, drops of water coursing down his face and sticking in his short beard._

_Ian’s _so _predictable._

_After a few seconds of just the rain talking, Theo had reached out, and, with his left thumb, swiped one of those lingering drops off Ian’s bottom lip. And, well, that was decidedly sexy. All Ian could do in return was give him a weak, albeit curious, look._

_“Hey, you know how I get when you walk us off.” Theo said._

_Ian hadn’t said much else, but just…surrendered, letting Theo steer him toward the wall until his back met the ivy with a soft rustle, feeling himself bracketed by the leaves. And then it was all Theo’s fingers grabbing in his wet hair, streaking down his temples; smearing his eye black all over his face. When Theo had started biting a hot mark into the side of his neck, Ian had gone soft and needy and compliant. Theo had undone the top two buttons of Ian’s jersey, slipped his wet hand inside, and remarked lustily, his palm flat against Ian’s chest, how he_ really liked it _when Ian didn’t wear an undershirt during games. Ian had started to think, even in his uninhibited state, about how they could get caught, even in the absolute darkness that is Wrigley Field at 2 AM, but then Theo had unbuckled Ian’s belt, and Ian simply decided to let Theo do _whatever_ he wanted. Which was, as Ian learned very quickly, putting his hand down Ian’s pants and silently jerking him off _right there_. _

_All Ian could do was enjoy it, hot-cheeked and begging, whispering_ _“yes, fuck, Theo. Theo! Theo, God, Theo-!”_ _over and over like he was still getting used to the way Theo’s name felt on his lips. It certainly wasn’t elegant or dignified or even romantic, but Theo was an expert with his hand, all sure and strong and wet on his hard dick, and it had felt _so_ goddamn good. Effective. Like he hadn’t been touched in _ages.

_It was like Ian’s skin was on fire, something lawless and burning and unquenchable even by the hard rain. Something that, even in the throes of _whatever_ this was, he had still fought to to rein back, until it finally caught and overpowered him, and he moaned “Aw, Jesus!” and came hard in his pants, all of him desperately bucking up into Theo’s grasp._

_And they had frozen, just like that, Ian’s eyes locked on the rebellious intensity in Theo’s gaze from mere inches away, all heavy breathing and spent effort under the black sky._

_It had taken Ian, shivering and starstruck, two hours wrapped in a blanket to warm up afterwards._

_And _that’s_ how you don’t get to bed until 6 AM the night before a day game._

Ian lets go of the ivy leaf and tries to shake it out of his head. He looks back toward home plate, where the assistant hitting coach is waving at him to join batting practice.

He’s _got_ to put this out of his mind. If his mind will_ let _him, lest it drive him back into a slump again.

***

The game is uneventful, a 4-1 win over San Diego. One of those games that’s over in two-and-a-half hours and feels almost procedural. 

The Cubs are two games up over St. Louis, and five-and-a-half over Milwaukee, at the start of their nine-game road trip. 

Although he sometimes does, Theo doesn’t join them on the road this time. He and Jed, the General Manager, are busy with what Theo calls “standard front office bullshit”, which is code for “going batshit crazy the week before the trade deadline.”

They go to Cincinnati, St. Louis, and Milwaukee. Things are the usual way they are on the road - they win a couple; they lose a couple. Ian plays left field, center field, and second base. He has one game where he has three hits, one game where he has none, one game where he walks every time he comes up to bat, and one forgettable game where he wears the golden sombrero at the end of the night. Albert is still slumping, and still griping every five flipping minutes about it. There’s a big to-do about Kris’ knee, which turns out to be nothing. The post-game buffet the last night in St. Louis is terrible. There is shrimp. Ian _hates _shrimp - but this is all normal, baseball-related variance, and Ian doesn’t mind.

Road trips are strangely clarifying. Ian thinks it’s something about the act of traveling itself, just getting out of Chicago, that makes his head less of a muddy, treacherous swamp. Things seem clearer, if not just for a few days.

And then everything blows up in their face in Milwaukee. It starts with a 2-2 tie that Brandon and Steve can’t preserve. They get the one-two punch of getting walked off on, and then having Cole just get _rocked _at the next day. Then, on the third night, poor Yu gets shafted by _another_ bullpen meltdown. 

The Milwaukee trip ends with a brutal sweep, and St. Louis does the same to Pittsburgh. Suddenly, after spending enough time in first to take it for granted, the Cubs are in second place, and they even have an upcoming off-day to _stew in it_ before they go back on the road. 

Ian slams the door to his hotel room irately. _Second place._ He had two hits, really well-struck, and it was for absolute naught. He’s wiped out, aching and dehydrated and run-through by the heat and stress. _Second place_. His feet hurt. Even changing into pajama bottoms feels like an unnecessary ordeal. The air conditioning’s on too high. Then he’s simultaneously overheating and bundled in bed. _Second place_. He feels hyperactive and _weird_, like he could fall asleep immediately, but his mind is spring-loaded.

Sure, it’s only July 20th, but he’s pretty certain that Theo’s not going to be exactly pleased with_ this. _

He should just go to sleep. Or maybe focus on what exactly has gone wrong over the past 72 hours. A little late-night self-improvement. 

Instead, he starts to think about Theo, like Theo is a default place where his brain might try to seek refuge. _God, he needs to stop._

Theo, likely buried in his fortress of doodles and analytics and notebooks and whatever matrix of player data he’s constructed on his iPad. Maybe he watched the game and now he’s going to get another cup of coffee. Maybe he’s walking laps around the conference room, a deep furrow in his brow, thinking _second fucking place_.

Maybe Theo’s frustrated too, just as exasperated by the crappy middle relief and the lack of hits with runners in scoring position and having to dwell on it all the time.

Frustrated enough to give up for the evening, leave everything to the rest of the front office, and say to hell with everything else. Frustrated enough to get in his car and drive. Drive north, just eighty miles north, headlights cutting through suburbs and farmlands along the Illinois-Wisconsin border. 

_Second place._ Ian tells himself, almost as if he’s trying to create a metaphorical traffic jam somewhere there.

But he’s too tired to fight this battle again, for what seems like the thousandth time.

He thinks about Theo creaking open the door. Maybe at around 2:30. He imagines himself stirring from his light sleep, awakened by some mixture of surprise and relief, and maybe shock, too. Theo, lying down next to him, warm and heavy and tired, but _next _to _him_. His hands finding Ian’s shoulders, his touch like a healing salve over Ian’s sore, tight muscles. Theo comforting him. Telling him not to worry. Smiling beside him, surrounding and enfolding and protecting him. Maybe leaning over and giving Ian’s earlobe a tiny nip, whispering _you’ll always be in in first for me. _

That thought quickly turns into Ian on his back, and Theo sliding down his pajama pants so that Ian is wearing nothing, overactive air conditioning be damned. Ian drawing his knees up to his chest. Theo rubbing his calves, asking if it feels good. A slow nod. Then that vision turns into Theo kissing down the backs of his thighs until Ian starts to sweat behind his knees. Goosebumps. Restless shifting. Ian’s breath struggling to leave his lungs. God, he’d _kill_ for it!

God_damn_, what would his teammates do if they knew he thought like this, _basically all the time_? 

Despite his growing arousal, Ian takes that image with him as he falls asleep, deep and dreamless and too-welcome.

When he wakes up, he’s sopping wet with sweat and wholly unsatisfied.

And still in second place. _That_ part was, unfortunately, real. 

_***_

It gets worse.

_Much _worse.

First, Ben goes on family leave, a messy situation which _nobody_ wants to talk about.

Then, Willy blows out his hamstring running out a fly ball that looks like it’ll drop. He cries uncontrollably in the back of the locker room, ice pack braced around his leg. He’s inconsolable by even Kyle and Jon. The MRI results aren’t good news. Everyone’s morose. Team morale is on the cusp of spiraling into the crapper.

Albert _still_ can’t hit. His OPS drops below 0.650, which seems to be the threshold that triggers outright panic. He doesn’t “feel right” after a batting practice session one morning, and takes one of his spare bats to the foam cooler in the trainer’s room.

Ian’s trying to calm him down, going _Al, c’mon_ and _it’s all right_, and _this isn’t productive. _But Javy’s behind them, trying to encourage Albert to just _get it all out of his system._ Albert’s got tears in his eyes, his face ruddy and flustered. Ian tells Javy to leave before he makes it worse, Ian and Javy end up shouting over one another, and Albert just sits dumbly on the floor amid the broken styrofoam chips blasted all over the room.

Then the Cubs - the _second-place_ Cubs - lose three games they have absolutely no business losing, and the narrative starts to become _well_, _maybe this is the year they actually flop in the second half_. _Something’s missing._ The story: they go out to Philadelphia, and play the most disastrous three-game set that Ian can remember ever playing in. 

José strikes out _fourteen_ Phillies - a career high for him - and the team can’t get it together offensively. Q’s brilliance goes to waste in the humid Philadelphia night. 

The second night, Cole, just back from a pulled oblique, gets shellacked by his old team and can’t make it out of the third inning. 

The third night, Yu matches José, carrying a 5-0 shutout through seven innings. But in the eighth comes the _worst _relief pitching collapse anyone’s _ever seen_, and the game ends when Bryce Harper hits a walk-off grand slam. It’s ear-damagingly loud - and _not _in a good way.

Yu, the ultimate professional, who normally has the emotional stability of bucket of sand, can’t deal with it this time.

“The _fuck_ I have to do here?!” Ian hears Yu cursing to Kyle after the game, “to _stop getting no-decisions?_”

It’s the kind of Murphy’s Law week that would be funny if it happened to the Brewers or the Reds, but it’s just tough fuckin’ luck when it happens to _your_ team. But they’re somehow still in second place after going through this meat grinder - _somehow_. 

Ian’s _okay_. He has to be okay when things get rough like this.

When they finally return to Chicago. Ian is over-tired, but can’t sleep. His arms are a little sore from some late-evening work in the clubhouse weight room.

So he watches TV at two in the morning with a blanket draped over his shoulders. It’s a re-run of one of those baseball talk shows on ESPN, which seems to be a roundtable speculation about _just what’s happened to the Cubs this last week. Great._ Ian normally doesn’t watch this sort of thing - at least, not anymore - but this time, he’s morbidly curious about what they’re saying.

“I think.” One of the analysts says, “That there seems to be a missing piece here. Things just aren’t gelling the way we’re used to seeing with this team after the All-Star Break.”

“We’re going to see something really drastic from the Cubs’ front office at the trade deadline. Something _really_ shocking.”

“You think so?” Another guy at the table asks. “Even with the Cubs only a game-and-a-half out and holding the second Wild-Card spot?”

“Absolutely. Probably could set our watch by it in about six days here. Something to jolt some life into them. Maybe it’s a big acquisition, likely on the offensive side, or maybe somebody gets moved that we weren’t really anticipating.” 

Ian doesn’t really want to think about the trade deadline in that _latter_ context, because…

Fortunately, _that’s_ a thought he can stop before it has a chance to root at all.

Maybe it’s in response to what he was starting to think, but Ian plucks his phone off the table, almost impulsively, and texts Theo.

_Can I see you soon?_

_***_

The first game of the new homestand, after another off-day, is invigorating. Not a cloud in the sky, not too hot, a sellout crowd, and a grand slam.

_Ian’s_ grand slam - the first pitch he saw in the bottom of the fourth. The ball sees Ian’s bat, and then the glove of some fan in the left-center field bleachers, and everybody exits stage right. 

They win 10-1, and the clubhouse is a fury of whoops and hollers and back-slaps as it always is after a laugher. As far as Ian is concerned, nothing lifts one’s spirits and eases one’s mind quite like smashing an unsuspecting baseball into low-Earth orbit. Maybe all will be well in the universe, now.

It’s when Ian is toweling off his hair in the clubhouse showers that his phone lights up with a text. It’s just visible out of the corner of his eye, on the edge of the sink.

_Of course. Have dinner with me?_

Well, Ian’s feeling confident today, for starters, for the first time in a full week. He’s home. They won a blowout. And confidence is, perhaps, enough to mask _can’t_ and_ shouldn’t_ for now. Dinner is a pretty innocuous affair, anyway.

They go to a _painfully_ fancy place downtown, a dark-jeans-and-dress-shirt place with high windows and impeccable modern architecture, low orange lights and black wood trim and tall pillar candles in the foyer. Ian isn’t even sure it’s actually a _restaurant _until they’re seated in a secluded corner, both with glasses of wine in hand. The food is ridiculous. At nine-thirty, the clientele is sparse. The wine is still _phenomenal. _

Ian hasn’t seen him in 12 days, but neither the stress of the upcoming trade deadline nor being in second have seemed to affect any part of Theo. At least, not _yet_ \- he’s knee-deep in another story, all boyish jocularity and maybe a bit too much wine.

“Wait.” Ian laughs easily. “You’re really telling me that after the second game in Seattle you went to an _axe-throwing contest_ at Eddie Vedder’s house?”

“I mean, what else is there to do in Seattle at one in the morning? It’s not like I don’t have insurance.”

“…Did you win?” Ian asks, growing increasingly interested. “Is that a thing you can even _win_ at?”

“Yes, you can win.” Theo says. “And no, I was…not good at it.”

“Probably better than you thought.” 

Theo seems amused by even explaining it. “No. _God_ no. It was like…imagine a pitcher with the absolute worst control you’ve ever seen.” 

For a few moments, Ian imagines Chatty, in one of his 2018-era fits of supreme wildness, standing on the mound and chucking axes crazily toward Eugenio Suarez, or some other thorn-in-the-side hitter. He’s doesn’t entirely like where that’s headed, so he’s glad when Theo interrupts. 

“Yeah. Kinda like _that_, but with more alcohol.”

“How much alcohol are we talking about here?”

“I’m…not sure you really want to ask that question. Might have to go all law school on you.” 

Ian’s shaking his head, perhaps in mild disbelief, and staring at the bottom of his glass, when Theo starts laughing randomly. Ian’s starting to get used to this by now - these moments where Theo’s brain turns on, or spontaneously switches gears somewhere, and, like a screaming line drive hit at him hard and out of nowhere, something is suddenly really,_ really _funny. 

“…What?” Ian asks, realizing that he might sound more…flirtatious than he intends to.

“That _pitch_.” Theo keeps chuckling. “The one you hit out today. It really was a _bad_ pitch, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. I mean, clearly it wasn’t where he wanted it.” 

“Not where he wanted it? _That’s_ an understatement. We used to call that kinda pitch an ‘elephant butt’. Really high and stinky.” 

That’s another bit of typical, oddball Theo-ness; always having some witticism at the ready, and Ian just keeps on laughing, now in a way that’s perhaps too loud and improper for the setting.

“Or, or, I know.” Ian says after a brief pause. “Maybe it was a sewer-ball?” 

“You mean it was shitty?” Theo guesses. 

“No, but _good one_.” Ian snorts. “Because it _backed up_ on him. Like a slider that backs up?”

Theo slams both palms down on the table. “Oh, that is fuckin’ _awful_. I love it. Yaknow, I think I’m rubbing off on you a little.” 

“Maybe.” Ian smiles, his face nearly splitting open with red-faced authenticity. The quiet returns almost as soon as it had departed. 

“You should come back to my office.” Theo finally says, his voice really low. “And we should have a meeting.” 

“About what?” 

There’s some glint of advancing mischief in Theo’s eyes. Ian stares, and suddenly feels all of him snag and tear right open on it.

“I missed you, Ian.” 

Ian says nothing back. He doesn’t care that Theo didn’t really answer his question. He’s becoming downright enthralled, feeling his own pulse hammering away under his ears.

“…a _lot_.” Theo whispers at him. “_So much_, in fact.”

And that’s really all it takes before the remnants of Ian’s half-cocked attempt at professionalism go right down like a shot bird.

He’s_ done for_. he’s not even going to _try_ this time.

***

_“Meeting” is an interesting word, in the sense that around fifty percent of the time, with Ian and Theo, it’s an actual meeting. Sit down, have a glass of water, and converse seriously - that sort of thing. Like in 2017, right after he was called up from Iowa, they had a meeting. Ian had never seen anything quite like the eccentric hodgepodge of Theo’s office before. It looked like someone backed a truck containing a vintage record shop into a late 90’s Silicon Valley exec’s suite and haphazardly dumped out half of it - but all Ian could focus on was the baseball. The baseball in the little glass case on the shelf next to Theo’s desk._

_“Is that…?” Ian had pointed._

_“Of course.” Theo had a huge, unbreakable grin. “I’m honestly surprised Anthony wanted to give it up.” _

That _was a meeting. _

More recently, “meeting” is usually meant euphemistically.

Tonight, it’s evident - and pretty quickly so - that this meeting is definitely in the euphemistic category. 

Or _whatever_ category involves Ian, cocky and wine-silly, shoving Theo against the plate-glass window in the back of his office and kissing him like _he’s_ the one with the actual authority here. At least, until Theo backs Ian onto the floor, onto the nice soft blue area rug, the kind of thing that team owners like to buy for their highest-ranking executives. And Ian pushes back, uses Theo’s momentum against him, not-quite-wrestling but not-quite-foreplay-yet, until he gets the upper hand and gets Theo’s hips pinioned between his thighs. Ian takes his time undoing all the buttons on Theo’s shirt and wiggling it off, and then he just _watches_

This. This is _good_. Seeing Theo like this, in just a soft black T-shirt, with his hands over his head, palms up, fingers curled a little, the just-defined curves of his biceps visible - he looks almost _submissive_. 

At least, until Theo’s eyes roll back in mock boredom, as if to say _get on with it,_ and Ian decides that maybe he’d better follow some _directions._ He frees himself of his pants and boxers with one hand, and then leans over and kisses up Theo’s neck wetly. Licks right up against his jawline, tongue catching in the little dimple in Theo’s chin. Ian’s just enjoying sharing space with him, like _this_, with one hand against Theo’s cheek, and the fingers of the other now lightly playing across the pretty good bulge in Theo’s black jeans. Enjoying being on top, in Theo’s lap, feeling like he could pin and ride Theo right through the floor. And when Ian leans in again, the denim on Theo’s leg rubs torturously across the bare, over-sensitive tip of his dick.

Oh, that _absolutely_ felt good, that friction with a little bit of sting beneath.

So he does it again. Again, and arousal just cleaves right through him. God _damn._

Then Theo makes some stupid joke, some addendum to his comment at dinner, about _who’s really rubbing off on whom tonight_.

Because he _just_ had to do that, didn’t he?

“Oh,_ fuck_ you_.” _Ian half-moans and half-laughs, boldly. “You snarky bastard.” (Ian is very thankful for the fact that it is ten-thirty at night. And that the door to this office is both very solid and very windowless.)

“Mmm.” Theo smiles up at him, pinky finger petting Ian’s flank. “D’ya think you could get off like this?” 

Ian shrugs; he doesn’t think about end-points. He just squeezes his eyes shut, grinding into Theo’s thigh, his groaning hard and rumbling in his chest. He feels Theo’s hands slide up, under the bottom of his shirt, onto his waist. Guiding his movements a little more. Theo’s hands feel different. Not like Ian’s - Ian’s hands are a map of rough patches and tiny calluses, imperfections worn in by the muscle memory of holding a bat or wearing a glove; muscle memory that Theo doesn’t have. Theo’s hands are gentle, big and unweathered on Ian’s ass, his stomach - and sliding forward onto his forearms, as Ian slowly undoes Theo’s belt and unzips his jeans.

It’s when Ian’s hiking Theo’s pants down that Theo starts to say something vague and humorous about his vast appreciation for Ian’s butt. But then Ian tilts his hips and rubs his hard cock flush against Theo’s, and they both quickly go nonverbal. Ian gets his hand wrapped around them both, Theo’s skin hot and velvet-soft next to his, and Ian swears that he’s going to lose his _soul_.

“G-_god_.” Theo stammers after a minute, his face scrunched up in pleasure. Ian’s never done _this _before. He likes it, and keeps going, his rhythm easy, the head of Theo’s cock growing slick beneath his thumb. Ian wishes he could bend over, messily lick it all up, see how much vocal restraint Theo _actually_ has in his own office; but he’ll do that some other time - this feels too good. It looks good, too, seeing both of them rock-hard together in his fist; noticing that Theo is maybe a little bigger than he is. Soon, Ian’s rubbing all their combined wetness together, all over, and Theo’s grabbing a rumpled fistful of Ian’s shirt-sleeve, rocking and shifting up beneath Ian without much control. Not that Ian has any more himself. 

Ian’s completely lost in the sensation. He catches himself wondering, for just a few moments, what it would be like to actually _fuck_ Theo. How he’d _do it._ Maybe right here, in his office. Maybe with just one lamp on, so he could admire Theo’s endless, charismatic _fuckability_. Maybe with just the light from the city skyline. Take all night. Draw it out, all _careful _and _deliberate_ like he’s trying to recognize a specific pattern of pitches thrown at him. He’d bend Theo over his own desk - the powerful and brilliant Theo Epstein, _all _his!_ \- _and take him right there, with both their pants around their knees. He’d use a lot of lube, and he’d fuck him deep, silky-smooth and _excruciatingly_ slow, and—

Ian won’t last much longer. His thoughts hijack his speech. “Wanna…” Ian whines incomprehensibly as his orgasm crests. “T-Theo, I wanna-_ohhhhh_.” 

He’s _gone_, white spots forming in the corner of his eyes, free-falling, taking Theo right with him.

Ian is _definitely_ going to sleep better tonight.

***

July 28th. 

The “standard front office bullshit” is intensifying. Theo comes to the clubhouse several times over the last two games of the homestand, mostly to talk to Joe about this-or-that. Sometimes he brings Jed with him. Other times he’s flanked by his usual pair of assistants. He attends several press conferences. He doesn’t loiter around unnecessarily; his interactions with Ian’s teammates are cordial but very brief. And he spends a lot of time on the phone - not that someone in his position _doesn’t_ \- but it’s a lot more so than usual right now.

Ian can tell, within a day, that the impending deadline on July 31st is finally starting to take his toll, and Ian wonders if Theo might _actually _be going insane or something. Theo looks gruff and gaunt. There are dark circles under his eyes and his hair is spectacularly disheveled. He looks like a college sophomore who spent all night at a house party instead of studying. He’s short-tempered in a way Ian hasn’t seen (or heard) before, and he and Joe have a particularly pointed exchange about _something _that’s loud enough to hear through the door of Joe’s office.

Ian doesn’t stare; doesn’t eavesdrop; doesn’t acknowledge. He just continues his conversations or organizes the bobbleheads above his locker or feigns interest in the lineup (when he already knows he’s batting fifth for the third consecutive day).

Ian doesn’t call, doesn’t text, and doesn’t really _ask_. Contrary to popular belief, even _sleeping with_ your young, freaky-hot President of Baseball Operations doesn’t get you any juicy insight into trade deadline secrets. That’s more standard Cubs front office bullshit: what happens across Gallagher Way seventy-two hours before things are filed with the league office is strictly under wraps - you don’t get told anything unless _you’re_ directly involved, and everyone’s forced to subsist on the constant low murmur of the rumors from the players’ lounge. Most of which, as Ian quickly learned his first year, are baloney. 

Theo had told him once that the trade deadline was a lot like play-calling in football: the sole objective is, of course, to misdirect your opponent in some way. Not to screw them over or _cheat _them, but to assert your dominance and gain the necessary yardage. Trading, obviously, is a lot more diplomatic (and less violent)! than football, but there’s still enough tomfoolery and chicanery and elbow-grease involved that hot-take know-it-alls on Twitter _shouldn’t _get into it. 

Ian understands things like _confidentiality_ and _conflict of interest_. He doesn’t need to know everything right now, but this stuff, and the attendant silence - regardless of why - is still a little unsettling. _Why? _Because under that, there are still avenues, dark, brambly things that Ian has to prevent himself from walking down. Again, he has to make a conscious effort to file it away.

They go to Pittsburgh for a three-gamer with the last-place Pirates. The hotel in Pittsburgh is comfortable and gorgeous, and offers a fabulous view of the city - and PNC Park - from Ian’s 14th floor room. 

Theo’s come with them this time, a hermit in his suite at the end of the hall, with the omnipresent _Do Not Disturb_ tag hanging from the door handle. 

At seven-in-the-morning on the day of the first game, Ian’s contemplative gazing at Pittsburgh from 200-plus feet up is broken by his roommate.

“Happer.” Albert says from the bed, mindlessly channel-surfing. Albert is much calmer this morning, having had two RBIs and a good sleep last night.

“S’up there, Prince Albert?” 

“Think I’m gonna go get a latte or something. Stuff from the Keurig tastes like gasoline. Ya want anything?”

“Uhh yeah. Get me two of ‘em, okay?” Ian says quickly. 

Albert returns 15 minutes later with coffee, and immediately wanders off to find Jason, who’s apparently on some quest to swim in a hotel pool in every city they play in. Ian walks out of his room, one coffee in each hand, until he gets to the end of the hall. There isn’t an _etiquette_ guide for this. Should he just turn around? Should he _knock?_ At least as it pertains to Theo, _Do Not Disturb_ means _Do Not Disturb,_ unless there’s an emergency. Someone contracting leprosy the morning of the game, or maybe Jon’s arm literally falling off in the shower the day he’s scheduled to pitch. _Something_ like _that._

But it’s early in the morning, and the door’s actually propped open, and a nice gesture_, _perhaps, is just that.

So Ian just looks around the hall briefly, lets himself in, and shuts the door behind him as quietly as he can.

Theo’s turned his suite into some sort of pre-deadline mobile command center. There are notebooks, manila folders, and papers everywhere. So _many _papers: some folded, some sloppily jammed into piles with other papers, some crumpled into tight balls on the floor and all over the bed. Some look like letters, some like spreadsheets; some contain what appear to be phone numbers. Ian passes a stack of binders, each with a name written in red Sharpie, that he can read in his peripheral vision. _Sogard. Merrifield. Dyson. Peralta. Castellanos. _There are Post-it Notes stuck up on the mirror with more names: _Phelps, Holland, Wieck _\- mostly names that Ian doesn’t recognize. Others seem to posit questions: _Where’s Carl?_ _Where’s Martín going?_ And one very hurried, angrily scrawled note simply reads _Amaya, really? Avila’s on crack!_

Ian doesn’t know if he should be seeing this. 

But his heart settles with heavy endearment when he sees him. Theo has his head down on the desk between his two laptops and his iPad, the light through the still-open blinds casting some odd shadows on his face. He’s wearing a blue _2016 World Series Champions_ shirt and basketball shorts, and he looks like he hasn’t shaved for at least four days. Ian would find this adorable if it wasn’t so blatantly serious and stressful, and there wasn’t, given the events of the past two days, the too-real risk of Theo leaping up in an irritable panic like a dog who’s just heard the vacuum cleaner. But there isn’t etiquette for this, _either._

Ian sets one of the coffees down on the desk, and right away, Theo grumbles something and opens his eyes. Maybe he was awake the whole time. “_Hey_.” Ian says softly. “Hey, sorry to just barge in, but…”

“Coffee.” Theo sniffs, cracking the tiniest smidgeon of a smile. “God, you know me so _well,_ rook.” 

“It’s just Starbucks.”

“It’s still _caffeine,_ isn’t it?” 

Okay, this is clearly _not panic, _so Ian reaches out and rubs the back of Theo’s neck lightly, fingers reaching up into the little bit of grey at the base of his hairline. “You doing okay in here?” Ian’s unsure if he means_ this room_, or Theo’s own _mind._

“Yeah. Just…God, I need some fuckin’ _sleep. _This is _beating _my _ass. _Shit’s worse than Yale frat hazing._”_

Ian has no frame of reference to imagine what that means, and changes the subject. “…You coming to the game?”

“I gotta watch it from here today. Just too much to do.” Theo groans. “Hit one into the fucking river for me, will ya?” 

“I’ll aim right for your window. Give you a literal break.” Ian forces a short nervous laugh, and Theo quirks another smile and punches the back of Ian’s elbow chastely.

Ian feels mildly uncomfortable, like, just by being here, he’s encroaching inappropriately onto Theo’s territory. “…Is there, uh, anything I can help with, with…?” _Well,_ there’s_ a stupid question, and Ian wishes he could swallow it back down_.

“No. It’s just…just…all that stuff I can’t talk about right now. You know. You know I _can’t_, I wish I could, it’s just…” Theo’s talking like his brain is a car that won’t start. 

_It’s just those parts of Theo’s world that are not _his.

“I know.” 

Theo gives him a quick hug, and doesn’t say another word.

***

Brandon is fresh off the IL, but his command is still hurting, apparently. He walks the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth, and they get walked off on. _Again!_ One of those _well, shit_ losses that just happen, but they’re approaching the beginning of pennant chase territory, and too many of them _keep happening._

It’s around one in the morning, and Albert’s still out for the evening. He had groused about another subpar day at the plate, stepped out to FaceTime with Krystal and the boys, and then who knows what happened after that.

Ian is, once again, struggling with insomnia, and is, once again, plopped in front of the TV. 

It’s MLB Network this time, some Trade Deadline special, and they_ too_, are talking about the Cubs, like it’s all some coincidence sent to simultaneously annoy Ian and pique his interest.

“The biggest weakness with the Cubs is definitely the bullpen. If they’re going to make a deep run in October, they _absolutely _need to shore up their relief pitching situation, especially as setup to Kimbrel.” Says one of the commentators, a pretty, dark-haired woman whose name Ian can’t immediately recall. “And of course top-flight relievers - I’m talking maybe someone like Smith from the Giants here - are absolutely going to demand MLB-ready talent in return.”

“Hear me out here - what about someone like Ian Happ as part of a trade package?” The guy seated to her right asks. “Switch-hitter, can play the entire infield and outfield. He’s hitting well, but kind of blocked by Bryant at third and platooning at second and in center right now.” 

“That’s an interesting idea, especially to a team like the Giants, who are looking at age and some expiring contracts at some of those positions.” The lady replies.

“Do you think that’s something we might see from the current front office, especially with a depleted farm system? Just a bit of a shake-up in that chemistry, to fill in some obvious holes and to say “_okay, we’re changing the way things are?_”

“I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility at all.” Another man across the table says. “We all remember what Epstein did in Boston with the Nomar Garciaparra trade in 2004, where he had some difficult decisions to make, and there’s _nothing_ that says something like that couldn’t happen again.”

With that, Ian turns off the television. He realizes it’s just prognostication by people who are _paid_ to prognosticate, but he really can’t can’t listen to_ that._

It’s dark, and a deep icy feeling is rising in Ian’s chest, finally freezing him in a place - the place he had _not wanted to go_ but had been standing at the precipice of for a couple of days.

_Would Theo _do _that?_

_Would Theo actually _trade _him?_

Ian’s job is to play on this team and do the best he can. Theo’s job is to make the team _better_. But Theo’s loyalty is to the organization, and the organization only, and if somehow, something were to get pushed out of alignment with the team, Theo would do _anything_ to make it right, no matter how drastic or how ridiculous the ramifications seemed, or regardless of anybody felt about it.

The crew on MLB Network was right, after all. Ian’s blocked, Ian’s platooning, and the Cubs are a team full of cracks and blemishes and_ something_ has to be done before they fold like a goddamn accordion and St. Louis revoltingly runs away with the division.

_Baseball is a business. And Theo is an executive._

_Theo’s world is meant to _meet _Ian’s, certainly, to abut and scratch up against Ian’s in various ways, but not to _ever_ intersect in the… particular way it’s come to. These things - Ian’s _feelings and vulnerabilities_, and the raw _impersonality_ of this business - need to be on opposite ends of the Venn Diagram, and there should be _nothing_ in the middle._

Ian remembers the morning. The _Do Not Disturb_ tag, the smell of coffee; the too-bright sunlight. Ian wishes he could’ve stayed. He’d have closed the shades and blotted out the light, the strife, the secrets, his inability to sleep, the ugly fucking losses, second place - all of it. He’d have pushed all those infernal notes and folios to the side, and lied down, with Theo, until everything stilled. Maybe until he fell asleep, with his head limp on Theo’s chest and their legs lazily draped together, and maybe he would have woken up refreshed and maybe they wouldn’t have gotten walked off on by the goddamn _Pirates._

He wishes he could’ve stayed, so _strongly_, that it makes stomach ache.

And this, this feeling, every single second of it, is _exactly why he shouldn’t be doing this_.

_Would Theo actually do that, to _him?

_To _them? To whatever _they_ are?

_Theo is not his friend._

_Or _is _he?_

***

It’s got to be irrational. Ian _knows_ it’s got to be irrational. _You don’t trade a 25-year-old super-utility-man batting 0.291, right?_

Yet, he can’t get it out of his head for two more days. _Well, there’s a chance that the commentators on TV were right!_

Despite the first game, the Cubs take the series. Albert hits two home runs in two games and damn near destroys the dugout like an overexcited bull. José pitches in Judgement-Of-God mode. But Ian’s approach at the plate for the final two games is pitiful. He might as well have been swinging at pitches with a rolled-up Chicago Tribune. He feels like a wind-up toy. He’s numb, almost like he shouldn’t get too_ attached _to anything because he doesn’t know what’s going to happen in the next twenty-four hours.

He doesn’t let himself even approach the door at the end of the hall.

_Maybe getting traded wouldn’t be so bad after all._ Ian thinks, lying awake at night yet again. Maybe he could go home to Pittsburgh, play for the Pirates, and live close to his mom. Or maybe he’d get traded to Toronto. They wear blue, just like the Cubs. Maybe he could learn to like hockey more and be stereotypically Canadian. And there wouldn’t be this…unsolvable gnarl of guilt and _always hiding something_. And Theo would be just another guy, with his same wicked biting humor, awful golf swing, and affinity for wine, with his stunning dark blue eyes and ability to blow Ian to smithereens in bed (or in his office, or against the left-field wall, or…) and maybe still _his_ guy, just not in this _situation._

But he’d miss Albert, even when Albert overreacts. He’d miss Javy’s base running wizardry and Willy’s concentrated energy, and Joe’s sagely advice and non-sequiturs; Jason affectionately slugging him the side before he goes on deck. There would be no more Sunday brunches at the Lesters’; no more themed road trips with goofy costumes. He wouldn’t get to see Pedro’s pranks, or those “W” flags any more, or watch Schwarbs hit total artillery shots onto Sheffield Avenue, or go out with Anthony and Kris and Ben to dive-bars in Bucktown on off-days. Being in it in late August and September - the hunt, the chase, the thrill - he probably wouldn’t have that in a place like Kansas City.

Christ, there are rocks, and there are hard places, and then there is Ian’s heart, which now feels like it is being splattered between two colliding mountains. 

The afternoon of July 31st, It’s around 3:30 in the afternoon. The grass at Wrigley has been freshly mown. Albert is at it in the cage. The deadline for all trade filings is 4 PM, and as the seconds tick by, Ian feels the weight lifting off his shoulders, if only gram by slow gram. Nobody’s called him, or come to find him. Even the day’s trade news - a few minor transactions regarding the bullpen; some cash considerations - isn’t much fodder for the clubhouse rumor mill, which appears to have ground to a halt. 

Jason bats next, and then after, just for the hell of it, Cole blasts a few balls into the ivy, mostly to amuse the bullpen guys. It’s just an average late-July day, with an average pregame routine for a 6:10 first pitch. 

Four o’clock comes and goes without much fanfare, and Ian is still a Cub. When Ian’s turn finally comes up for batting practice, he swings as hard as he can at the first pitch, like he’s trying to exorcise all of this dread and ill-borne adrenaline and stupid thinking.

The baseball doesn’t stand a chance. It hits the scoreboard. Jason busts out roaring like it’s part of some comedy routine. 

“Holy shit!” He hears chaos erupt behind him from the direction of the home dugout just as he’s going to hit from the left hand side. “Guys, holy _shit!_” He recognizes the voice as Anthony’s, and then Kris yells out something else. There’s more obvious excitement, and more cuss-words, and another voice. “Whoa_, fuck!_” Kyle’s. “fucking unbelievable!” _Kyle Hendricks_ is actually _swearing_. This is something serious. 

“‘Sup back there?” Jason hollers. It’s around 4:10, probably.

“We got him!” Anthony shouts back, waving his phone in the air. “We actually _fucking_ _got_ him!”

Everyone runs in, and gathers around Anthony’s phone, where a Tweet from a Sun-Times reporter is visible. _Official: Cubs trade pitching prospects Alex Lange and Paul Richan to Tigers for OF Nicholas Castellanos._

Kris’ smile could rival the sun. “Okay. Who’s ready to murder some more baseballs!?” 

Anthony full-on screams, shaking his fists at the sky. _“We got him!” _

_Well, holy shit indeed._

***

It was an eleventh-hour deal, or rather, as the media reported, a 3:58 PM buzzer-beater that ended a grisly staring contest between Theo and Al Avila, where they finally both just said “_to hell with it_”, the paperwork was filed, and that was that. 

The news courses through the entire team like lightning, and in the third inning, the Cubs’ offense ignites, shooing St. Louis’ starting pitcher off the mound with three back-to-back home runs. Kyle’s eight shutout innings are his usual masterclass in finesse and guile. Ian starts a double play; Albert makes a crazy flying catch in center. It’s a great night, and they end a half-game out of first.

After the team has some fun, wheeling the fog machine out of the party room and chasing Kyle around with Super Soakers, Ian takes his solitary walk through the outfield.

The lights are on, the custodial staff is busy, and the grounds crew is still working on the mound, but Ian is alone with his thoughts. He’s calm and pretty relieved, his stroll jaunty, his hands jammed in the pockets of his hoodie. 

But something’s still boring away in the back of Ian’s mind, an icky and annoying call that he feels he should eventually answer, but isn’t sure_ how_. 

Nonetheless, he gets a text six minutes later. _Well, maybe he can try now._

_Come up to my office?_

When Ian gets there twenty minutes later, Theo’s got his feet up on his desk. He’s dapper and bright-eyed and clean-shaven, with his hands behind his head, and there isn’t a stray paper to be found. _It’s all like some effortless sleight-of-hand, where none of it ever happened._

This is a meeting of the non-euphemistic variety. 

They talk about the game, what’s in the news lately, how muggy the weather’s been - seemingly everything _except_ the trade deadline bombshell, until Ian finally dips his toe in that pool during a short break in the conversation.

“Castellanos.” Ian says. “_Nice_. If I’m…allowed to comment now.” 

“Of course.” 

They exchange a couple of giddy, knowing smiles. 

“You know, they reported that we got it done at three-fifty-eight, but it was actually three-fifty-nine and twelve seconds.” Theo sighs. “You’d _think_ they’d have gotten that right. Makes it more dramatic that way.” 

“And here I am, out there taking BP, thinking that nothing had happened at all.” 

“But that’s how it_ should_ be.”

Ian walks over, cracks the shades open, and looks outside. It’s a very clear night, a full moon blazing through the light pollution from the city. 

“How you holding up?” Theo scoots his chair over and looks out with him. “I figured this has probably been kind of hard, and--” 

“Not too bad.” Ian cuts him off. 

Ian takes the ensuing twenty seconds of silence to try and count the stars. Something about it stabilizes his breathing. Burns off the edge. He can only see five, but there are seven planes. _Ah, Chicago._

“Hey, Theo.” Ian begins. “Can I ask you something? It’s…kind of awkward, and you don’t really have to answer it if you don’t…”

“Hey, as long as it’s not about my mother’s bra size or something, we’re _good_.” Theo stops him, and puts a reassuring hand on Ian’s thigh.

“Would you do it?” Ian asks, all in one breath.

“Do what?”

“If-if you could have 2016 all over again, but this year…” Ian weaves his fingers between Theo’s. “If you knew that you’d win it all again in 2019, would you trade me?”

Theo hesitates, and then snuffles out a surprised little laugh. “What kind of question is _that_?”

“Would you do it?” 

“Well, comparing 2016 and 2019 is really an apples and oranges kinda thing. It’s a pointless thought experiment to even ask about it.”

“But would you do it?”

“Ian…”

“You’re deflecting. Would you?” 

“No.” Theo says, with a sort of strange, amiable firmness in his voice that Ian’s entirely unfamiliar with. “…I wouldn’t.” 

“Why not?”

“Because.” Theo stands up behind Ian, letting go of his hand. “Because.” He repeats. “Because it really doesn’t make a whole lot of logical sense.”

“What about 2004? That thing in Boston?”

“Nomar? _That_ made sense, and still does. _This_ wouldn’t.” 

“Baseball sense, right.” 

“Well yeah.” Theo says. “Why would I do something that makes zero baseball sense?”

But before Ian can even construct any type of response to that, Theo hugs him from behind, abruptly and solidly and affirmatively, a tight squeeze right around his chest. He presses the side of his face into Ian’s neck. He smells like shampoo and clean soap, acres of sweet, forbidden familiarity. 

“And because.” He strokes Ian’s hair tellingly with the back of his knuckles, talking quietly. “There’s no point in winning the whole fucking thing if I’ve got nobody to share the whole fucking thing with. Okay?” 

The sheer tiredness in Theo’s voice is now on display, finally belying his appearance.

Ian nods, rests his hands gently over Theo’s, and lets himself relax. Perhaps it’s the beginning of a crash, as anticlimactic as it feels, from days of sleeplessness. He takes a couple of very deep breaths, and lets his chin drop down toward his chest.

“God. This week.” Theo mumbles into Ian’s collar. ”You want to play golf in the morning? For old times’ sake?”

“Sure. But _really?_ May counts as ‘old times’ now?” 

“Come home with me.” Is Theo’s response. “Tonight.”

_Ian should not go home with Theo. God, he really, really, really should _never_ do that. _There’s a scandal just waiting to bust out like a guy having an 0-for-31 streak.

“I need you.” 

But fuck, he just _has_ to.

***

_August first. _

_All of it was good. The slight midnight breeze, the seven-block walk to Theo’s house, and everything that transpired inside. Theo needed Ian, and Ian had definitely needed Theo, like it was some sort of great, passionate requiem for all of Ian’s doubt and insecurity and exhaustion. Like the concepts of friends and protégées and mentors and executives and bosses and _whatever_ else were just reduced to empty words, just like words like _can’t _and _couldn’t _and _shouldn’t_ and _won’t _\- just words he could crumple up on paper and toss right into the bin._

_It was nearing seven. Ian had yawned, and stretched back into the massive, comfortable mountain of pillows that Theo called a bed. Theo was sprawled, shirtless, half across him, and way-too-awake for someone who just sprinted through the gauntlet of Major League Baseball’s trade deadline at top speed._

_“So was it really an apples and oranges kinda thing, as you said?” Ian had asked sleepily. “This year and 2016?”_

_“Sort of.” Theo tilted his head up from Ian’s stomach, his chin grazing the strawberry blond hair around Ian’s belly button. “Although it’s more of an apples and baseballs comparison. They’re both round and about three inches across, but that’s it.”_

_“I think I could hit an apple ‘round four-hundred feet.” _

_“No you couldn’t.” Theo had dug his fingernails into Ian’s ribs and Ian had jolted._

_“I could too.” Ian squeaked, twisting ticklishly and prying Theo’s fingers away. “Presuming it’s left out over the middle of the plate.” _

_“C’mon, the physics are way different.” _

_“What the hell do you know about physics, Einstein?” Ian wiped a little short cowlick of hair away from Theo’s forehead._

_“Nothing. Okay, whatever. Can you at least acknowledge that a baked baseball would make a really shitty dessert?”_

_“You asshole.” Ian had grabbed the nearest pillow and cuffed Theo on the side of it. “You total corny asshole.” _

Ian smiles from ear to ear when he remembers it three hours later. He must be giggling, or doing something else audibly because Albert stops him.

“What’s so friggin’ funny, anyway?”

“Nothin’.” 

“You’re an odd cat sometimes, Happer.” 

“Hey, maybe I just woke up like this.” Ian wrinkles his nose.

As per usual, two hours before the afternoon’s first pitch, Ian is taking a walk around the Wrigley outfield warning track with Albert. Today, a step behind them is Nicholas, their new teammate. Nicholas is affable and confident and eager to get to work, and Ian likes him immediately.

“So is this like, some kinda ritual you guys have here before you get in the cage?” Nicholas inquires.

“Maybe a little bit.” says Albert. 

“So I gotta ask…does it have any effect on your hitting?” 

“Well, he did go two-for-four last night.” Ian answers, in jest, for Albert.

“Naw, don’t think it does all that much.” Albert says. “But I’ve started talking to Theo, and he’s helping me work through my frustrations a little bit. And finding me some people who can help more than he can.”

Nicholas raises his eyebrows. “So is _that _some kinda ritual you guys have here, then?”

“Not really.” Albert replies. “But Ian can tell you all about Theo’s un-slumping powers. It’s some straight-up voodoo shit.” 

“I mean, I’ve known Theo about six minutes, but like, no judgement.” Nicholas shrugs. “He seems really pretty cool.”

“You three!” Schwarbs calls from around second base, waving his hand toward him. “Get up here!” 

“Yeah.” Ian says to Nicholas, before they break into a jog. “He really is.”

Ian closes his eyes and feels the wind on his face as he runs; a testament to a new month, a new series, and a new morning.

_Sure, he shouldn’t._

_But, as it stands, he _is.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Sway": set in the same divergent 2019-universe with some real games and some fake ones, and the timeline generally being black and blue and wildly incorrect all over. Unfortunately, it's canon-compliant with the Cubs being in second and continuing to lose in exotic and creative ways seemingly just to torture me.
> 
> Obligatory "I'm not responsible" disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. If you're a MLB player, don't boink high-ranking team execs, regardless of how hot they may be. Or do. But I didn't make you do it.
> 
> Thanks to littleblacksubmarines for beta-ing me forward and ass-ward and for, as always, being my very good friend! <3


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